Page 23 of Midnight at the Magnolia

Just another day in paradise.

Or purgatory? Hard to tell when you’re caught between worlds.

The herbs sewn into my uniform feel heavy today, each one chosen carefully for protection and clarity. Grandma’s voice whispers from memory:“The plants know, child. They feel the weight of anniversaries same as we do.”

As the early birds clear out, the TV in the corner catches my attention, and suddenly the herbs at my throat feel like they’re choking me:

“...anniversary of the infamous Bayou Butcher case. Ten years ago today, the city was rocked by the discovery of multiple bodies in the swamps outside New Orleans. The case remains unsolved...”

Just like that, I’m not in the diner anymore. I’m sixteen again, mud sucking at my shoes, mosquitos whining in my ears, the stench of decay choking me as I search for Sarah. The protective herbs Grandma had sewn into my jacket that night had failed us both. Some evils are too strong for even the oldest magic.

My sister.

My everything.

Happy anniversary, you bastards. Hope you’re ready for one hell of a reunion.

“Celeste? You okay, honey?”

I blink, reality slamming back into place. Mrs. Thibodeaux peers up at me, concern etched on her weathered face. I’ve been standing there like an idiot, coffeepot hovering over her empty cup. The rosemary in my pocket—for remembrance and clarity—seems to pulse with accusation.

“Yeah, I’m good,” I manage, forcing a smile as I pour. “Just... you know how memories sneak up and sucker punch you sometimes?” My fingers brush the sachet at my hip, drawing strength from generations of bayou wisdom.

But I’m not good.

Not even close.

As I move through the diner, resetting tables for the lunch rush, my hands shake. Cheap plates clatter, a physical manifestation of my inner chaos. I touch each protective herb sewn into my apron like a rosary—angelica root for protection,thistle for strength, rue to ward off those who’d harm me. But even Grandma’s strongest charms can’t keep memories at bay.

The day wears on, the diner’s rhythm shifting. Suits replace pajamas, the smell of coffee giving way to the spicy aroma of jambalaya. I’m starting to think I might make it through my double without completely losing it when the bell above the door chimes. My hand automatically brushes the clarity herbs at my collar as I assess the new arrival.

Ethan walks in, and my heart does that stupid little flip it always does.

Dangerous territory,I remind myself. But damn if he doesn’t look good, all rumpled suit and concerned eyes. I catalog his appearance automatically—tension in his shoulders, shadows under his eyes, the slight bulge of his shoulder holster hidden beneath his jacket.

“Celeste?” he calls softly, approaching the counter. “You alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

More than one, sugar. And they all want their pound of flesh.

For a crazy second, I consider spilling everything. The weight of my secrets feels heavier than all the herbs and charms I carry. Instead, I jerk my head towards an empty booth. “Coffee break?”

Ethan slides in across from me, the vinyl squeaking in protest. I signal to Jimmy I’m taking five, then face Ethan, the sticky tabletop a flimsy barrier between us. I note his position automatically—clear view of both exits, back to the wall. Just like me. Just like every predator in this city.

“What’s going on?” Ethan’s voice is gentle, his eyes searching mine. In the diner’s harsh fluorescents, they look almost golden, warm with worry and something deeper, more dangerous. The vervain in my bracelet seems to pulse a warning:Careful, Celeste. Those puppy dog eyes are a trap.

I take a shaky breath, the smell of grease and coffee mixing with the protective herbs I wear. “Just... remembering stuff I’ve tried real hard to forget.” My fingers trace the embroidered protection sigils hidden in my uniform’s hem, seeking comfort in their familiar patterns.

Ethan reaches across the table, his hand covering mine. The warmth of his touch sends electricity racing up my arm, making the protection herbs at my wrist seem to burn. “I’ve seen that look before,” he says softly. “In victims, witnesses... people carrying more weight than anyone should bear alone. Let me help, Celeste. Please.”

Christ, I think, my heart racing against the sachet of calming herbs near my heart. Lavender and chamomile, chosen to steady nerves, now useless against the storm of emotions he stirs. I want to tell him everything. To finally share this burden that’s been crushing me for years.

But I can’t.

I won’t risk it all, not even for him.

“What about you, Ethan?” I deflect, falling back on old habits like Grandma taught me. When cornered, redirect. When threatened, distract. “What ghosts are you running from?”

He’s quiet so long I think he won’t answer. My fingers find the rosemary sewn into my collar—for remembrance, for truth.

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